The Black Dot Killer
by ProofThatThisIsReal
Summary: The Black Dot Killer claims another life, but there's more to these crimes than meets the eye.  Watson is, as always, dumbfounded by his friend's almost supernatural abilities.  But what will Holmes' deducing snare him this time?
1. Chapter 1

A story I wrote a few years ago for my English class.

Watson and Holmes are, of course, borrowed from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**The Black Dot Killer - I**

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled out across his usual chair, his back to the door, scanning the headlines of one of the various newspapers upon his lap.<p>

The tilt of his head told me that he was in deep concentration, focusing on some subject that held his attention within the pages.

I gently shut the door, not making a sound, wondering if I could for once catch the famed Sherlock Holmes unawares.

"Good day, my dear Watson," Holmes muttered as soon as the door shut, his eyes still locked upon the headlines.

I rolled my eyes in disbelief. I should be used to Holmes' almost unnatural ability to deduce things, having known him over thirty years now, but it still catches me unawares at times.

"Good day to you, too," I said, placing my hat and jacket upon the coat-hanger beside the door. "May I ask how you knew it was _I_ who entered?"

"Why, of course," Holmes said, his gaze still locked upon the newspapers. "Upon opening the door, the newspapers upon my lap were blown by just the slightest of a breeze. Since I knew that there were no windows or other opening within the room, I deduced that the door must have just been opened. Now, there are only a few people in the entirety of London who would open my door without first knocking: a drunk, a criminal intending me harm, or my dear friend Watson. Since I did not smell any trace of alcohol, I deduced it was not the former of the three. And, upon assuming that it was in fact my dear friend Watson and upon calling out his name and receiving an answer in the sound of his voice, I reasoned that it was, in almost all probability, yourself."

Holmes finally tore his gaze from the headlines and turned his head in my direction. "And it appears I was correct."

"Indeed," I said, my voice betraying a hint of sarcasm. I took a seat upon one of the two chairs beside him. "So, are there any new cases warranting my interest?"

Holmes' expression turned dark and he tossed me the newspaper he had been reading, front cover exposed. I caught it and quickly scanned the headline. It read:

* * *

><p>May 4th, 1910<p>

**The Black Dot Killer Claims Another Life**

A week and a half ago today, a man by the name of Dr. Jackson Philmore was delivered a scrap of parchment with a black dot written upon it. He was a successful man in his late fifties, with a wife and three kids, and had recently helped manufacture a piece of the now-famous Model-T automobile. Two days later, his body was found amongst the shrubbery of the river, and the cause of death was determined to be by a knife wound to the abdomen. Nothing was stolen, and it appeared that this was the work of some lunatic killer.

Now, yesterday, Mr. Charles Ebren was found dead in an alleyway along Prayton Street. He was in his early twenties, newly-married and with no children. He worked for a printing press, and had recently achieved the great honor of being promoted to head of the company. The cause of death was apparently a sharp blow to the head with what the police believe to be a pipe of some sort. His wallet was stolen, and the crime looked, for all appearances, to be a case of robbery and murder. However, after questioning his wife, it was discovered that Mr. Ebren had received a scrap of parchment with a black dot written upon it in the mail just the day before. He had said that he believed that it was only some kind of practical joke, someone trying to make him look bad after his newly acquired position at the printing press.

Sadly, though, upon light of his death, it seems that there is indeed a Black Dot Killer on the loose. So far, the police have been unable to make any connection between Dr. Philmore and Mr. Eberaun. The ages, lifestyles, family, location, and occupation all appear to be different, and the police are hard-pressed to come up with anything linking the two men.

* * *

><p>I looked back from the newspaper and stared Holmes in the eye. "I'm surprised that you have not yet tried tackling this case yourself, or do you believe it to be beyond even your skills?"<p>

"On the contrary," Holmes said, "I haven't had enough time to even think about going after this case. I've been trying to solve the case about the Siberian hushpuppy for the longest time, but now that that's all cleared up I'll have time to focus my attention elsewhere. Hopefully I'll be able to solve this case in time to save the next victim of this labeled "Black Dot Killer."

"So you believe there to be more murders?"

"Oh, definitely, assuming the murderer continues to follow his pattern."

I raised one of my eyebrows. "So you've already found a pattern to how this murderer works?"

"Oh, of course; is it not obvious?"

"I seem never to grasp what you yourself think as obvious, so I must say no. I believe that only you, Holmes, can make the intricate connections between trivial facts and the solving of a case."

"Ah, Watson," Holmes sighed as he repositioned himself within his chair, "you have to realize that connecting the seemingly simplest of details together is the clue to solving almost any crime. The only reason you cannot make these connections is because you cannot deduce what I do from these random facts."

A heavy rasp sounded upon the closed door behind Holmes, and the private detective's right eyebrow curved sharply upward.

"For instance," he said, standing up from his chair, "what can you deduce from the man who has just knocked upon our door?"

I gazed slack-jawed at Holmes for a few seconds, and then exclaimed, "Now really, Holmes, how in the world might I be able to deduce anything from someone who I haven't even seen yet?"

"By thinking, my dear Watson," Holmes said as he made his way to the door. "The weight with which the knock was carried out suggests that this is most likely a man and not a woman. It also suggests that this is a man on a mission, most likely a client with some trouble that he would like to bequeath upon us. Also, the fact that neither of us heard his approach across the leaves suggests that he has a commendable skill in stealth." Holmes' hands were now resting on the door handle. "Now, what profession could you possibly think of that would require stealth, Watson?"

My brain quickly examined and crossed out a dozen or so possibilities. Finally, giving up, I said, "An assassin."

Holmes smirked at the comment. Then, with a twist of his wrist, the door swung open and in stepped a finely-dressed man. He looked to be a businessman in his mid thirties, and he wore a dark, glossy suit and pants. His skin was deeply tanned, and a charcoal mat of hair was curved over his face in a distinctive loop.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked my friend in a low, monotonous voice.

"Indeed I am," Holmes said cheerily as he closed the door, motioning to the vacant chair beside his own. "Please, have a seat."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Mr. Holmes?" he asked my friend in a low, monotonous voice._

_"Indeed I am," Holmes said cheerily as he closed the door, motioning to the vacant chair beside his own. "Please, have a seat."_

* * *

><p>"Why, thank you," the client said. He slowly strolled to the chair Holmes had indicated and sat down. Holmes did likewise, and we both sat waiting for the stranger to speak.<p>

The man sat there for a few seconds in silence, and then his gaze drifted to the newspaper which I had been studying. His eyes widened, and then he took a deep breath and turned back to Holmes.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes," he said, still in the same monotonous voice.

"Oh, no trouble at all, though I would deeply care to know the name of the man I am currently addressing."

"The name is Edward Morris, sir, and I come to you with trouble, as I'm sure most of your clients do. I have heard that you are the best in dealing with these sorts of situations, and in light of recent occurrences," the man pointed to the newspaper which was resting upon the table, "I think that it is imperative for me to get the best help possible in dealing with this matter."

"Why, I am flattered," Holmes stated, leaning closer to the man and eyeing his neatly polished boots, "but just what is it that seems to be the problem?"

Slowly, Mr. Morris dug his hand into his coat pocket and emerged with a small piece of parchment grasped between his fingers. He unfolded the scrap of paper and then laid it upon the table for all of us to see. The parchment was barren, except in the very center where a large black dot was drawn.

Holmes' eyes widened and he drew his head close to the parchment. "I assume you are aware of the other incidents?" he asked, his voice austere.

"I am," Mr. Morris said as he sat back into his seat and fiddled with the peculiar curl through his jet-black hair. "When I first received the parchment in the mail, my immediate thought was that it was just a practical joke, since I knew that I had no connections with either Dr. Philmore or Mr. Ebren. But, in light of Mr. Ebren's last thoughts, I took it more seriously. As far as I can tell, this parchment looks to be the same as the parchment with which the newspaper offered a picture of. And, if this is in fact a psychopathic killer on the loose, I do not savor meeting my end in some river or alleyway. I've already spoken with the police, and while they are anxious to catch the killer, they have no idea how to do so without using me as bait. As you can probably guess, I didn't particularly want to be bait for some murderer, and neither did I want an escort following me around all the time. So they instead recommended me to you, and here I am."

Holmes sat in silence for a few seconds, eyeing the scrap of parchment. Finally he asked, "What exactly is your occupation, Mr. Morris, and what would you say is your general lifestyle?"

"My profession is carpentry, and I am unmarried and live a few miles north of here. I've been in carpentry all my life, self-employed, and I have never even heard of either Dr. Philmore or Mr. Ebren until recently. I received this paper just this morning, and after visiting the police, I came straight here. I have no idea how this "Black Dot Killer" could have picked me for his murderous scheme, but I definitely don't assent to going along with it."

Holmes' frown broadened onto his forehead. "Have you participated in any carpentry jobs that seemed out of the ordinary to you recently?"

Mr. Morris seemed caught off-guard at this question and shook his head. "Um, no, none that I can think of, just routine tasks and…" Mr. Morris' voice trailed off and a spark lit up his eyes. "On the other hand, I did have a curious job a few days ago down at the lumber mill. Well, it wasn't exactly curious, just odd. I was installing a kind of pulley system within a large, triangular cabin on the south side of the mill that went to the roof of the house. Though I questioned the owner as to what its purpose was, he would not say. However, I was paid well, and that was that. But surely that cannot be connected with this case."

"It could easily be just a trivial fact," Holmes stated, "but it could also just as easily be a vital clue. What was the man's name who hired you?"

"He said his name was Jackson Rivers, and he looked to be someone who worked at the mill there."

Holmes sat in silence once again, his gaze shifting back to the parchment. After about a minute he looked back at Mr. Morris and said, "My friend and I will look into this matter for you, seeing as it is of paramount importance, and I hope to have some clue as to what we can do for you by the end of the day. If so, I will wire you. I recommend that you go about your normal routine today, so as to not tip off the murderer to anything out of the ordinary if he is in fact watching you. For now, though, I must ask that you leave us with this scrap of parchment, as it may be imperative to our solving of the case. And, most importantly, stay safe. The murderer has so far never stuck at his victim the same day that he has sent them this black dot, but it would still be best not to take any unnecessary risks."

Mr. Morris nodded, and then stood from his chair. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. It is not often that a man can say that his life is in someone else's hands, but in this situation I believe that statement to be true."

Mr. Morris then exited the room, his footsteps not making a sound as he tread across the leaf-covered pathway.

"I did not know that carpentry required such a substantial skill at stealth," I stated casually as I turned back to Holmes. He did not seem to pay me any attention, however, for he was sitting in his chair with his eyes glazed over in a way that meant his mind was busy deciphering the subtle facts that our client had given us.

At last he stirred from his glazed look and asked, "Did you notice that our friend, Mr. Morris, did not wear a watch, Watson, despite his obvious requirement of it since he is a self-employed man?"

Holmes caught me completely by surprise with this question, and I answered dumbly, "Um… no, I did not. Are you suggesting that he is a man that doesn't keep track of time?"

Holmes' brow creased, and he looked back down at the parchment. "I'm not sure what I'm suggesting, actually. You should come back here later this afternoon, when I have had time to let the facts of this case sink in."

I obliged him with a curt nod, and then departed, giving myself time to wonder upon the case as well.

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><p><em>Thoughts or reviews greatly appreciated, thanks. When I wrote this I was trying to nail down the style of Sherlock Holmes.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

It was just past 3 o'clock when I quietly reopened the door to Holmes' room. I flinched as a stale gust of air hit me, and I doubted that my friend had even once left the room since I had departed. I slowly closed the door behind me and then ambled to where Holmes sat under a lamp. He was scrutinizing the parchment with the black dot upon it, and his face held a glee that I knew meant he had found something.

"Watson, do you see this?" he called, momentarily looking in my direction. His voice was filled with excitement.

I came over to where he sat and looked upon the parchment. "You mean the giant black dot in the middle of the paper?"

"No," Holmes said, ignoring my sarcasm, "the watermark."

I looked into the top left corner of the paper, squinting my eyes. Sure enough, a small, faded, dull blue watermark caught my attention. Though it was considerably faded, I made out a small millhouse silhouetted by trees.

My eyes lit up as my mind locked into place the peculiar recounting of what Mr. Morris had described to us near the mill and the watermark. "Wouldn't the police have searched the other scraps of parchment for such a marking?" I asked.

"Yes, even with their shoddy accounting of evidence they should have noted if a watermark was on either of the other two notes. What troubles me is that I don't think a murderer this assiduous would make such a careless mistake as to leave a watermark upon his death-note."

"A trap then?"

"Maybe… but either way, we must follow it, on account of both this evidence and Mr. Morris' account of his experience at the mill."

"Right. Shall I bring the revolver?"

Holmes shot me a bemused look. "When one goes hunting after proven murderers, Watson, I would always recommend taking a weapon with you. It usually makes the meeting considerably less difficult."

* * *

><p><em>The next chapter will be longer. I promise. And the plot thickens, of course.<br>Also, a shout-out to my reviewer StarCatcher 1858. Thanks for the input._


	4. Chapter 4

It was nearly five when we arrived at the lumber camp, and a darkening sky met us as we stepped out of the cab. Holmes paid the driver, and then the carriage trotted off, the horses' clomping hooves fading into the distance. The distinctive smell of birch and maple assaulted our nostrils as we gazed upon the mill and surrounding countryside.

Before us was a colossal mill, with sawed trees stacked to and fro around the structure. A river flowed through the side of the complex, a means of transportation for the huge trunks, and the rest of the surrounding area was smothered in hills and forest. The mill itself appeared to be deserted, the day being a Sunday, and the smooth trickle of the river was a background noise to the otherwise silent countryside.

A lone triangular cabin stood on the southern edge of the mill, right up against a rather large pile of peeled birch trees. Holmes slowly began making his way in that direction, and I wordlessly followed, keeping my senses alert for anything out of the ordinary.

We approached the large cabin from an angle that would not place us in the line of sight of any of the windows, and then Holmes and I stealthily pressed our backs to the hard wood. The faint shadows moving across our faces were the only sign that a wind was present in the treetops above; otherwise the entire place was still.

Holmes cautiously eased over to one of the windows and poked his head so that he could see through. Tense seconds followed as my hand came to rest beside the revolver in my coat pocket, and then Holmes swung his head back and mimicked an 'all clear' sign.

We both carefully made our way to the door, still keeping quiet so as not to alert anyone that may be around to our presence. Holmes tried the door, and it gave way with a slight tug. I saw my friend's eyebrows rise as he pondered why the door would be unlocked, and then he entered. My hand still beside my pocket, I came in after him, and found myself within a single room full of well-crafted wood furniture.

Desks and drawers lined the sides of the cabin, and a fireplace stood in the back corner of the room. A single bed was to the right of the fireplace, and other various pieces of furniture were arranged around the cabin. However, there was no intricate pulley system as we were expecting to find, and the roof showed no marks or blemishes of any kind to suggest there ever was one. In fact, the cabin held none of the technological features that were such a craze in London homes such as lamps or clocks. To all appearances, the cabin seemed to be completely ordinary and mundane.

"Do you think we have the wrong cabin?" I asked after surveying the room.

Holmes didn't respond at once, for he was busy sifting through the fireplace on the far side of the room. He gave up after a few seconds and said, "No, I believe we have the cabin that Mr. Morris described to us, for it is precisely as he described it. It is triangular, an odd shape for a cabin, and it is the only cabin in sight on the far side of the mill." He continued toward a wardrobe beside the fireplace and swung its wooden door open.

A line of stretched animal skins hung from a shaft inside the wardrobe, and Holmes' eyes widened as he stared at them. "It appears that our friend here, the supposed Mr. Jackson Rivers, is a fur trader." He stood looking at the skins a moment longer, and then went off in the other direction toward the lone cot on the other side of the room.

I let out an exasperated sigh as I walked over to a desk to examine its contents. "Holmes, I really don't think that there is anything here to discover of any value."

"Ah, Watson, will you never learn? It is the things that you don't think of being important that are the most vital to a case. I myself have…" His voice trailed off and I turned around to see what had distracted him.

Beside the bed my friend stood gazing over a container of what appeared to be black dye. He popped the lid, sniffed it lightly, and then brought it away from his nose, a questioning expression upon his face.

A sparkle then lit up his eye, and I knew from experience that a theory of his had just popped into his head. He quickly grabbed the magnifying glass from his coat pocket and turned to the pillow upon the bed.

"Watson, how would you tie in the lack of a pulley within a cabin that should have had one, the presence of a container of recently used black hair dye, a wardrobe suggesting that this cabin is in fact the home of a fur trader, and the fact that Mr. Morris did not wear a watch?"

"I … I don't know," I stammered, gazing at my friend in the most peculiar way. "I find absolutely no connection between what you have just said, especially the fact that Mr. Morris didn't wear a watch. How is that at all relevant to our current situation?"

Even though Holmes was turned away from me, I still caught the smirk that appeared on his face. "Oh, Watson, you need merely-"

An ominous silence filled the rest of his sentence as my friend suddenly became extremely rigid. He bent down quickly, snatching at something upon the pillow with his hand, and then turned around and held it to the light.

"It is as I had feared," Holmes said, his voice deathly serious as he twirled a single strand of bright red hair with a peculiar, distinctive curl through it between his fingers.

I stared back at my friend, a dumbfounded expression upon my face, wondering not for the first time if he had finally lost his senses. It was at that moment that the creak of a door and the sound of air rushing by caught my ears. I turned toward the door that we had entered just a few minutes before, and even as my vision locked onto a figure standing in the doorway, his right arm outstretched, I was tackled to the ground by Holmes.

My breath left me in a rush of air as my back hit the hard wood surface of the cabin, and then I spotted a small knife whistling past where I had just stood. Holmes rolled over me as he fell, coming up into a fighting stance as I gasped for air and rolled onto my side. My wind came to me a second later, and I tried desperately to draw myself back onto my feet.

Holmes had already pounced upon the man, fists flailing, and they were both now up against the wall, struggling. The other man suddenly broke away from Holmes and drew back toward the door, as if to retreat. I caught a glint of metal in his hand as he drew another knife from a sheath, and then Holmes propelled himself toward the intruder, trying to make a grab at the man's wrist. Holmes' hands found their mark, but the intruder pulled back with a ferocious yank which caught Holmes off balance and sent him spiraling into a corner of the cabin. A cruel smirk played across the intruder's face, and then he lunged at my friend, his knife outstretched, right as my fingers enclosed upon the trigger of my revolver.

A deafening boom rattled the cabin as I fired, and then all went silent as the intruder was thrown to the ground by the impact of the shot.

Holmes groaned grimly from where he lay upon the floor.

"Are you hurt?" I asked frantically, scanning my friend over for signs of a stab wound.

"Oh, me? No, not all. You did exquisite, Watson, though it might have helped had you fired a tad sooner." He flashed me one of his mocking grins, and then turned to the man that now lay halfway through the doorway.  
>My revolver blast had taken the man through the shoulder to the chest, and it was clear that he would not be savable. It was only when I noticed his wound that my eyes suddenly deciphered his face. The man lying upon the ground was none other than Mr. Morris, only instead of a mat of black hair, it was a bright red. His eyes were dimly opened, flickering in and out of focus, and he stirred just the slightest as if to gaze upon us better. I didn't even try to hide my surprise as I stared down at the man who had hired us to find the man that was out to murder us. My brain did a summersault, and I turned to Holmes with shock etched into my expression.<p>

Holmes didn't register my glance, for he was looking down into the eyes of our client with the utmost contempt. Then, slowly, he drew from within his pocket a crumpled piece of paper and folded it out upon his hands. He then dropped it upon the dying man's chest, and I saw that it was the very same parchment with a black dot upon it that Mr. Morris had handed to us when we had first encountered him.

Then Holmes spoke, a gravelly, dread-filled, haunting voice that I had rarely heard him use before. "The Black Dot Killer has claimed his last victim, Watson, and the one most joyous to hear news of… Himself…"

A hacking, wheezing sound sprouted from the dying man's lips, and I could just barely make out his words as he stared up into the face of my friend. "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes…I'm… impressed…"

The man's eyes then closed, and I knew from my countless experiences as a fully-qualified physician that the man was dead.

After a second of silence, Holmes turned to me and said, "Watson, call the police, and after we recount this to them they should be able to wrap up the case of the Black Dot Killer once and for all."

"But…," I started, "But how did he…?"

"Later, Watson; when we get back. I've had enough of this case for one day."

* * *

><p><em>Now, how in the world am I supposed to tie everything together from this without it being something completely preposterous?<em>

_That was my first thought after rereading this, despite the fact I had written it. I wrote this story 2 years ago, so I couldn't remember the resolution. But I promise it's explained in the final chapter. But before that comes about, any theories or speculations?_


	5. Chapter 5

"When one thinks about it, it's really quite simple, actually," Holmes started as he sat back into his usual chair. "Mr. Morris, whose actual name is Samuel Dellson, according to the police files, wanted me out of the way so that he could continue on with his campaign of murder without fear of being traced and caught by myself, a master private detective. So he came to offer me a case involving the Black Dot Killer, which he knew I could hardly refuse. He planned to lure us to the cabin, with the watermark that he engraved upon the parchment, and then planned to kill me, making my death out to be another deed by the Black Dot Killer. He was a very good actor, I must say, though certain aspects of his appearance clashed with the facts that he gave us."

I stared at Holmes with a blank expression upon my face as I sank into the chair facing him. We had just returned from the police station, where Holmes alone had recounted the incident to the police.

Taking in Holmes' words, my mouth curved to the side as my mind sought back the facts that I had observed when we had first met Mr. Morris, or Mr. Dellson, as we should now call him, and I tumbled over the information in my mind. Upon discovering that there was nothing that I could discern from the information, I slowly shook my head.

"From the beginning, then," Holmes said, a smirk etched into his face. "When we first met Mr. Dellson, I noticed that his coat and boots had all been newly bought, for they had not yet lost their gleam or scent. He told us that he had come straight from the police station, but I reasoned that since it had rained the day before, and that the police station is near the other side of town, he in most probability would have some trace of mud upon his boots. However, upon examining his boots, I found that he had no such indication that he had taken a walk across town, and this instantly raised my suspicions.

"He then told us of his occupation, a self-employed carpenter, and I noticed that his hands were not overly-calloused, as most carpenters' hands are, and that he had no watch. Why would a man who is self-employed and obviously values time as an important asset not carry a watch?

"All of his physical identification contrasted with what he said, and so I naturally assumed that he might be leading us astray with his case of the Black Dot Murderer. This is evidenced in his phony moniker, Mr. Jackson Waters, which was designed to lead us astray in our search, to throw us a bone in the other direction. Granted, the facts of the case did not truly come together until the discovery of the black hair dye and the animal skin at the cabin. The parchment upon which the black dot had been written had been made from animal skin, and the recently used hair-dye tied me into the fact that someone had a need to conceal their identity. The most reasonable theory would suggest the owner of the cabin was in fact the Black Dot Killer and also a fur trader.

"Then my mind raced back to my very first impression of Mr. Morris. He did not make a sound as he came up the leaf-ridden walkway to my residence, suggesting a substantial skill in stealth. What other occupation in England would require such a skill in stealth as a fur trader?"

Holmes' eyes twinkled as he shot a glance my direction. "You mocked the first clue that suggested that this was not merely an ordinary carpenter, Watson, but it is of no matter. Anyway, after asking myself this question, I looked upon the bed for some trace of the occupant's actual appearance, and my theory was proven correct a second later as I located a bright red hair with a peculiar curl through it, matching Mr. Morris' own hair. He would naturally have wanted to cover up anything that would be too distinctive about him when he came to us asking to track down the Black Dot Killer.

"As all of these facts locked into place in my head and I realized that we had most probably walked into a trap, the door creaked open, and I think you can recall the remainder of the incident."

My gaze stayed focused on Holmes for a few seconds, silently diesting the words he had said, and then blurted out, "But what was his motive? What would a fur trader, as we know him to be, accomplish from murdering a few well-accomplished men? There is no money to be gained from committing such an act!"

"You are right on that account, my dear friend; there was no money to be gained from executing such a wretched act of violence. However, in my time as a private detective, I've discovered that greed isn't the only thing that motivates one to kill. A hobby could accomplish such an act, and so could delirium, though I don't think either applies to Mr. Dellson. What I do believe is that Mr. Dellson had a phobia, a fear, of something that both of his victims possessed."

I took in Holmes' words without comment as my mind raced to decipher the hieroglyphs Holmes' had handed me. As usual, I failed and shook my head.

"Both Dr. Philmore and Mr. Ebren, the two men killed by Mr. Dellson, had achieved recent achievements in their respected companies or businesses," Holmes began again. "Dr. Philmore had helped invent part of the Model-T automobile, a great achievement when one looks at the success of the Model-T. Then, Mr. Ebren had recently been promoted to head of the printing press, another great achievement that would ensure most Londoners would read newspapers he has fabricated."

Holmes paused, searching my face for some kind of epiphany. Sadly, none came.

"Mr. Dellson, I believe, had a fear of technology," Holmes finally stated. "When you think back on it, you remember that his residence, the cabin, held absolutely no sign of technological habitation. Also, he did not wear a watch, meaning that he avoided all forms of technological improvement in day-to-day life. The fact that he killed Dr. Philmore and Mr. Ebren instead of even more successful ones was probably because he was trying not to leave a clear trail to follow until he had gotten rid of me. After my death, he would probably go after more prominent targets in the technological world. The only reason he used the black dots in the first place was to mask his true intentions and lure me to my fatal demise."

I gazed back at Holmes with my mouth hanging open, not bothering for once to try and hide my amazement and envy for his skills.

"He was a prominent adversary, Watson," Holmes continued as he picked up the newspaper that had been left upon the coffee table, "one that I never hope to face the likes of again."

"I must congratulate you yet again, my dear friend," I said, emotion coloring my voice, "for solving one of London's greatest threats in less than a day's time."

"Oh, all in a day's work," he said, waving off my flattery. "Now, did you see the back of today's paper? It had some odd occurrences happening upon the Mildred Estate involving, according to what the locals say, pigmy elephants and a small herd of extraterrestrial goats. Would you care to tag along while I visit the estate tomorrow morning?"

A daring smile crept into my features. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

><p><em>And thus endeth my sophomore year of High School fanfiction writing. Looking back, I think I could do it much better, but this was entertaining to revisit. Let me know what you think so I know people have actually read the story. And a special thanks to my reviewers.<em>


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